


Over Time

by littlelionleo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sad, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sort of a Happy Ending?, estranged family, i got an A, i turned this in for a grade in my english class, it's mostly about Sherlock and Mycroft really, sibling relationships, time lapse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 01:16:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5186678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelionleo/pseuds/littlelionleo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They hadn't spoken in years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over Time

Twelve year old Mycroft stares down at his little baby brother Sherlock, laying in his cradle, only about a day old, and marvels at how small and calm he seems for a baby. How almost intelligent he appears. His silvery-blue-green eyes stare at Mycroft in an almost disconcerting way. He vows silently that he will take care of and look out for his baby brother always.

Mycroft chases a two year old Sherlock through the house, socks slipping on the hardwood floors, laughing as they try to find their puppy, Redbeard, somewhere in the huge, elaborate, building they call home.

“Mycwoft,” a four year old Sherlock tugs on his older brother’s arm “how big is the univewse?” Mycroft looks down at his tiny, black haired brother in amazement. “Umm…” He searches for an answer. “Well… scientists don’t quite know yet, Sherlock.” “Okay, Mycwoft, thank you.” He toddles away softly to some other destination in the house while 

Mycroft marvels that such a young soul could know so much.

Mycroft, nineteen years old, carries his bags through the house. He stops outside his seven year old brothers room, looks in, and speaks softly “I’m heading off to Uni now. Um… I guess I’ll see you at midterm break… … Goodbye, Sherlock.” He knows his brother hears him, but he doesn’t respond.

An eight year old Sherlock gently pets Redbeard’s head while reading Criminal Investigation in the home library. His brother, on Christmas break from college, stops outside the room with two cups of hot chocolate, and hesitates at the open door, trying to decide whether to go in or not. When Sherlock stops reading and comes out of the room, there is a cup of now-cold cocoa on the table in the hall. He stops, looks at it, and walks away.

Mycroft, twenty-four years old, stands at the window, watching his twelve year old brother, who will always be his baby brother, because he promised years ago; he watches his baby brother sitting in the cold rain with a collar in his hands. Mycroft knows their parents wont say anything to him. He wants to ask him to come inside and get warm, to tell him that he’ll catch a cold out there, to tell him that everything will be okay, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t, because he knows that Sherlock blames Mycroft for Redbeard being gone, and that even though Mycroft can tell tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that Redbeard would have been put down anyway, Sherlock won’t listen.

A newly fourteen year old Sherlock opens his birthday present from his brother slowly. They are the only ones at the large table, the only ones in the room. Sherlock pauses, looks at the blue scarf, and looks back at Mycroft. He pauses again before speaking. “Sentiment is weakness, Mycroft. You should know this by now. I mean, you work for the British Government, you practically are the British Government, surely you’ve learned at least this lesson?” He spits the words out. He stands, and walks out of the room. Mycroft sighs, throws away the wrapping paper, grabs his jacket and his bag. He walks outside, gets in the waiting cab, and drives away. He leaves the scarf still laying on the dining table.

Mycroft sits at his desk. He wonders, idly, how his brother is doing. It’s been six years since they last spoke. He taps his pen against his desk frustratedly. He thinks about dog collars and forensics books and blue scarves.

Twenty-one year old Sherlock stands in a park, cup of tea in hand, and watches the people moving about him. The widow who lost her husband in the military, the young man on the phone, he’s supposed to be at work. The gentleman feeding the birds who recently returned from a science expedition in Japan. Sherlock drinks his tea and wonders how everyone can be so oblivious, so stupid, and how they don’t notice what’s right in front of them. He thinks about the size of the universe, and cocoa, and old dusty boxes in the back of closets.

Forty years old, Mycroft stands in Buckingham Palace, and wonders what his baby brother has been up to. He knows that if he wanted to, he could find out. But some part of him doesn’t. Some part of him whispers it’s better this way. He thinks about how, at twenty-eight, his baby brother isn’t so little anymore. 

Thirty-one years old, Sherlock stands outside of his new flat, next to the man who will be his new flatmate. His name is John. He is a retired army doctor, recently back from war. Sherlock glances at him, notices that his limp is psychosomatic, and that the tremor in his hand isn’t brought on by stress. John glances at his feet, shifting his weight, and Sherlock dimly thinks of how different it is from his brother’s sure stance. He adjusts the blue scarf around his neck.

Thirty-four years old, John stands in front of a man he has never seen before, in a secluded building, in a parking garage, in the middle of no where. The man knows all about John, and offers money in exchange for information about Sherlock. John declines. Mycroft wonders at how easily John has decided to trust his baby brother, after only one day of knowing him.

Sherlock tries to be nonchalant about his brother offering money in exchange for information about him, but inside, he wonder why, all these years later, his brother wants to know how he’s doing, and why he can’t just ask Sherlock himself. Although, honestly, he knows the reason. He thinks of big houses and birthday presents and empty tables. 

Mycroft stands in his office, looking out the window, wonders if it was a mistake to find Dr. Watson. He does know what Sherlock has been up to. He’s been solving crimes. Not as a job, but because he likes doing it. He always was interested in crime, Mycroft reflects. But, it was worth it, he decides, because Sherlock has never opened up to anyone. Ever. Or, at least, until now.

Sherlock has only know this man, this Dr. John Watson, for about thirty-six hours, yet his life has already been saved. Maybe it was time he opened up to someone.

Mycroft strolls slowly towards his brother. He looks so different from the small, bright, happy child he used to be.

Sherlock sees his brother, and stops. He looks so much older, and so much more tired.

Mycroft stares for a moment, but it seems like an eternity.

Sherlock stares back, the seconds lasting for hours.

Mycroft speaks. “So, another case cracked. How very public spirited ... though that’s never really your motivation, is it?” He thinks to himself that that was the wrong thing to say.

Sherlock thinks to himself that that is exactly what he would expect his brother to say. His gaze narrows.

After a short conversation, Sherlock walks away. Mycroft stands there, dumbfounded. Not because of anything his baby brother said, or how he acted, no, that was to be expected, but because of one thing.

Sherlock, angrily stalking away, glances down, turns his collar up, and buttons his coat over his blue scarf.

**Author's Note:**

> I really did turn this in for a grade in my English class...  
> And I got an A+


End file.
